One.

I’m not very sure why I’m doing this.

Or whether I’ll carry this on. It’ll probably just become another item in the endless list of vocations and activities that I try to take up and then drop after a couple of weeks. Trampolining. Horse Riding. Photography. Piano. Staying in any sort of shape (if you don’t count round as a shape). Anyway, I’ve very optimistically named this entry “1”, which implies there might be more entries. We’ll see.

I’m gonna start making movies soon. That’s my next ambitious plan that seems so stable and tangible at the moment, but will undoubtably sink into disrepair after a couple of months. Again, we’ll see. I guess with the process of trying to think of scripts, and thus people, and thus the nature of people, and thus how people think, I’ve been thinking a bit more about how I think. If that makes any sense at all. Thinking about my thinking has led me to think that my thinking is something I should think about more often. I have little bursts of thoughts and links of ideas that make me think, ‘Hey, that’s pretty good, I should remember that!’. And they inevitably get drowned by a sea of other pitiful thoughts like ‘Hey, I wonder if I can afford to buy pizza tonight- and if so what kind- and should I really be considering getting pizza- and should I really care- and meh meh meh meh’.

You get the picture, whoever ‘you’ are. An older version of me. Another person that reads this. Whoever. Which raises the question again: why am I doing this?

I guess I have to come to terms with the fact that my mental wellbeing isn’t top notch. If it were to be represented physically, it would be far from the shiny, polished sphere of the ‘at peace yoga instructor’. Mines is like I took a book about normal mental psyche, a book about depression and a book about insecurity, anxiety and self loathing (it’s a big book okay), tore out the pages and scrunched them all together into a convoluted ball of jagged edges and indistinguishable thoughts.

I’m just a bit crazy basically. But I’m good at keeping it under wraps, mostly. Which, from all the stuff my degree in medicine suggests, is not entirely helpful.

Hence the diary, I guess.

I remember trying to write a diary when I was younger. It was too much of just writing about what I did that day, which was dead boring as it turned out, and deciding how I could make my sentences sound fancier. With this, I just want to be constantly typing, even if it’s a load of garbage that comes out. Both of these are being achieved it seems.

But if you do want to know what I did today, I called in sick to work. Which I wasn’t. I was tired and wanted more sleep. Poor show J. From there, I made pancakes, and I lay about pissing away the hours on my laptop. I need to write a script. I need to make this short film. I need my god-forsaken life to have some sort of purpose.

I’m not always as depressing as this by the way. Even when I’m depressed.